


Circuits

by sunshiner



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Not really a fix it?, Post-SPECTRE, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-05-05 12:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5374559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's too late for this," Q says when his fingers no longer itch to dig out the second gun and empty it into Bond's stomach. He checks his watch and gives a dry chuckle. If it's directed at the time, or at Bond, or at the shambles his life is in, he doesn't know. "Or too early. I'm going to bed. If you're still here in six hours, we'll talk. Otherwise, so long. Oh, I don't recommend using the red quilt if you don't fancy waking up with cat fur in places where you wouldn't want cat fur to be."<br/>"You want me to sleep on the couch," Bond says. Q gets a good bit of pleasure from his surprise.<br/>"Actually, I want you to go back to Paris or, more in general, go wherever you want that is far away from here and possibly not reachable if not by plane."<br/>"You took a plane to Austria."<br/>"You're quite the broken record, you know."<br/>"You have a guest room."<br/>"I do. You'll find I can be rather petty when pissed off."</p><p> </p><p>  <i> or, Bond comes back, but not to MI6. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Madeleine

_Researchers have wondered how the brain creates emotions since the early days of psychological science. With a surge of studies in affective neuroscience in recent decades, scientists are poised to answer this question. In this article, we present a meta-analytic summary of the human neuroimaging literature on emotion. We compare the locationist approach (i.e., the hypothesis that discrete emotion categories consistently and specifically correspond to distinct brain regions) with the psychological constructionist approach (i.e., the hypothesis that discrete emotion categories are constructed of more general brain networks not specific to those categories) to better understand –_

"What are you reading?" James interrupts her, with fingers in her hair and lips brushing her neck.

Madeleine scoots forward so he can slid between her and the side of the couch, an arm draped across her abdomen.

"Papers," she answers, laying said papers on the coffee table and letting her hands rest on top of James'. "My new boss wants me to be familiar with their research work, so here I am. Reading papers."

"Even on a Sunday?" James inquires distractedly, his mouth trailing a path down her throat.

"Science, mh," she smiles and her breath catches as teeth sink on top of her clavicle. "Science never rests."

James' hands leave her waist to land on her tights, caressing them with enough pressure to make her lashes flutter.

"I'm sure we could convince science to take a nap for an hour or two."

Madeleine hums and closes her eyes.

 

*

 

James Bond is a predictable man. He's sweet, thoughtful, romantic. He's a man who knows how to live and has the rare but remarkable capacity to make whoever's in his company want to live as well.

Madeleine gives him a month - and they do a lot in a month, tanning and drinking and fucking from Thailand to Seychelles to Costa Rica - before she gently puts her foot down and demands they go back to a semblance of real life.

James has admittedly no concept of what a real life entails, but, if Madeleine's choice of words bothers him, he doesn't show. They trade five star hotels and white sandy beaches for a flat near Le Bon Marché in Paris. They keep the champagne, though.

And the sex.

James is insatiable, even more now than at the beginning. It's invigorating, having his complete attention and care. She isn’t sure what he does all day when she's at work, but every night she comes home to dinners and flowers and the occasional opera tickets. His French improves and his muscle mass stays the same, though, so he must be going out and doing things. She’s not worried.

James Bond is a predictable man, and his predictability makes her the happiest she's ever been since childhood.

So happy she won't give in to the voice in her head, the one that torments her when she's on the verge of falling asleep with James' breath behind her ear, the one that whispers that it’s an act.

 

*

 

There are, ah – _things_. Signs, in hindsight.

She's a psychiatrist. She'd have to be a terrible one to miss them, and she really isn't.

The first one is the postcards. He picks up the first one during a layover in Bangkok, a week into their I'm Glad We Weren't Killed By Your Lunatic Step Brother trip.

He skips all the gorgeous temples and sandy beaches and settles on a shot of the city's skyline at night, the blue of the sky almost electric. She figures he'll keep it for himself -God knows people collect stranger things - but, as he pays for magazines and junk food for the flight, he asks for stamps as well.

"Who are you sending it to?" Madeleine asks, taking the postcard from the counter before he can stop her.

She sees a shadow of distress cross his face, sheepish and angry at once, but it's just that - a shadow. A second later, his mouth curves into his trademark half smirk. "A friend. I promised."

She doesn't press, but she does peek when he's filling it out. It's addressed to CAG, flat A, 15 Queen's Gate Gardens, London SW7 5LY.

James doesn't write anything else.

 

*

 

CAG also receives a sunset from Praslin and an exotic bird from Puntarenas, both with equally blank messages.

The trend gets broken with the last one (a street in Montmartre, on Madeleine’s suggestion). James buys it two weeks after their arrival in the city, while they’re strolling on a Sunday afternoon, hand in hand.

"I suppose this will be the last one," Madeleine says as he slips it in the inner pocket of his coat. "Are you going to write something this time?"

She expects a non-answer, a deflection, like all the other times she'd tried to broach the subject, but James turns to look at her with a glint in his eyes.

"You know," he squeezes her hand, as if he'd just remembered he was holding it in the first place. "I might."

 

*

 

He writes _Can't even find a decent cup of tea here_ and signs it _J_.

Madeleine volunteers to send it. She thought she wasn't bothered by it – all in all, James has made no active effort to hide anything from her and Madeleine is acutely aware that it was a conscious decision on his part.  She thought she wasn't bothered, but she remains stuck on the sidewalk for minutes, her gaze flickering back and forth between the mailbox and the nearest bin. In the end, she shakes her head, deposits the postcard and hopes CAG, whoever he or she is, chokes on his English tea.

 

*

 

The pay is not nearly comparable to her previous one, but she doesn’t mind. In Austria, she felt as if she was doing nothing but piling money for her own funeral. She’s missed working in a hospital, with no office of her own but a common room with not enough computers and an endless list of patients who need a bed and the brisk sensation that there’s always more to be done.

She’s the new one on the team, and her colleagues are wary, but also intrigued. She looks younger than she is, with a curriculum that doesn’t match her pretty face. She’s used to it.

At first people watch her as if waiting to see what would happen if she were to break a nail (the answer’s nothing; she keeps her nails too short for it to happen). Then, they try to poke holes, because she can’t be truly _like that_ (“How long were you in Armenia?” “Didn’t you miss home? A boyfriend?” “What did you do in Haiti?” “Did you have a security detail?” “It wasn’t actually _that_ dangerous, was it?”). it’s just the first few weeks. She knows they’ll pass, and then it’ll be small talk during coffee breaks and drinks after work and, slowly but undoubtedly, she’ll be one of them. She has to wait it out, that’s all.

It’s one of the things that drew her to James from the beginning, how he didn’t appear surprised by her appearance at all. He never treated her with anything less than the regard you give an accomplished professional, and never made her feel as if she should be grateful for it.

He’s always so proud of her, so reverent.

It reminds her of her father, but she’s stopped trying to analyse her daddy issues a long time ago.

 

*

 

“You’re tired.”

James runs a hand down her side, heat over silk over skin. She wears those ridiculous nightgowns because of the feral look he gets in his eyes, like he wants to set himself on fire using nothing but the friction of their bodies as a match.

“I’m fine,” she says, tugging on his neck. He doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything but stare into her eyes.

They have an entire conversation, there, in between their breaths, a delicate back and forth. _I need to work or I’ll die_ and _I know, it used to be the same for me_. _I might go mad like this_ and _Good thing I’m a psychiatrist, then_. _I love you_ and _Let’s hope no one drills into my skull this time_.

“You’re tired,” he repeats in the end. His tone is not accusatory. “Let’s just sleep.”

“Alright.” She smiles and leans up for a kiss, pushes on his shoulders until he’s lying on his back on the mattress, her legs on either side of his hips. She grinds her pelvis down. “Just sleep.”

 

*

 

She wins her colleagues over. Or better, she befriends Sophie, who’s everyone’s favourite, and becomes mildly tolerated by association.

Her new social life is a welcome change. Her closest friends from med school have all left Paris and she doesn’t want to see any of the casual acquaintances she knows are still here. She has little free time as it is, and James takes up most of it.

One can’t be too consumed by their partner, though, as much as James would love to fluctuate in a constant honeymoon phase. Madeleine needs people, and opinions, and she’s never been good at staying still. Most of all, sometimes she needs someone to speak French with.

She convinces herself she holds the reins of a perfectly balanced situation.

That is, until Antoine, a slimy character who Madeleine suspects has a crush on her, sits down next to her during an _apéro_ and says, “Why don’t you bring him around, then, this wonderful James?”

Sophie nods enthusiastically from her other side and Madeleine’s throat constricts.

 

*

The next morning, whatever thought Madeleine was entertaining about having James meet her colleagues is interrupted by the arrival of a box.

It contains two tins of Fortnum & Mason's Famous Teas, specifically an Earl Grey and a Royal Blend, and James immediately places it on a kitchen shelf. The aquamarine blue of the tins sticks like a sore thumb against the polished red of the furniture, although it's not as bad as the ceramic bulldog.

Still, this one is a consumable good, so Madeleine starts drinking as much tea as possible, as strong as she can handle.

( _I’m afraid the problem’s the water_ is written on a post it taped to the box. Madeleine stops feeling guilty for wishing asphyxiation on CAG, then decides to pointedly forget about it forever.)

 

*

 

James is incredibly charming.

It’s ridiculous that she finds herself thinking it, because James used to have a career based on his charms, but it’s been a while since she’s seen it directed at someone who isn’t her.

It is for her sake, though, she supposes. James laughs at something Sophie says and catches Madeleine’s eyes over her shoulder, sending her an amused lip twitch, and whatever uneasiness was troubling her is liquefied into a warm balm swirling in her chest.

Maybe James is doing better than she expected.

 

*

 

(One of the many reasons psychiatrists can’t form relationships with patients: you can’t be objective about someone you love.)

 

*

 

“You were worried,” he comments in the car, later. He’s already driving at the edge of the speed limit, but he’s making a terrible effort not to push harder on the pedal. He’s clutching the gear stick so hard Madeleine wonders if he’ll leave a mark.

She raises her eyes to the road.

“So many doctors in such little space can be intense. We’re a strange species.”

“Can’t argue with that,” James says good-naturedly. His grip relaxes. “Do you think I’ve passed their scrutiny?”

“You performed decently enough.”

James reaches out a hand to blindly tickle her abdomen. She chuckles and bats it away, and for a second she’s back on a beach in front of the Indian Ocean, nothing but James’ smile on her mind.

"Don't you miss it? Not killing people, I mean. Everything else. You know, the adrenaline, the purpose. The traveling. London. Your team."

"I have everything I want here with me."

"I'm glad to hear that. But you can talk to me. It's fine if you miss it, your old life."

He says nothing for a long time.

Then, James clears his throat.

"I miss killing people too," he whispers, harsh and gritty and with terrible finality.

They stay silent for the rest of the way.

 

*

 

The tea finishes. The tins stay.

 

*

 

The next delivery is a lot worse than tea.

Madeleine carefully flattens the papers over the table in the living room. She's read them in the lift.

James raises his eyes from the book he's reading and frowns when he spots her. It's understandable. She hasn't even taken her coat off.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" she says, because there is nothing else she can articulate at the moment. "The car's registered to my name."

"Did I get a ticket?"

"Apparently, _I_ did. 1250 euros. 6 points off my license. It might be suspended." She tries to keep her voice levelled, but it just comes out as a hiss. "I drive to work, James."

James stands up and walks toward her, takes the letter into his hands and skims it. He hums, unperturbed. "Tell them you weren't the one driving."

"And who would I say it was? Do you even know your license number? Do you even have one?"

"I could get it. I could call a friend."

"You and your friends,” Madeleine spits. "Listen, James. I don't care what you do with your spare time, where you go, if you drink yourself into a coma –“

He tenses at that, a blink-and-miss straightening of the shoulders, but Madeleine catches it. When she speaks again, her voice is loaded with derision. “You think I don't notice the vanishing bottles? I live here too."

"Hardly,” James comments placidly, his eyes fixed on the table.

Madeleine chuckles. She knows James understands why she has to work as much as she does. She knows he’s not the type to fault her for taking care of her career, or at least she likes to believe he isn’t. If he’s bringing her long hours up, then they’re just playing at who can hurt the other best, and everything’s fair game.

"I'm sorry we can't all live off the money we made killing people for our government,” she taunts. She regrets it as soon as the words leave her mouth, but she’s never been good at calling things even. She also knows James can take it. Will probably be good for him, too, if she stopped coddling him.

James’ jaw works. "What does this have to do with anything?" is what he says, but all Madeleine hears is, _I miss killing people too_.

Madeleine cautiously puts her hand on top of James’. To his credit, he doesn’t startle. He just raises his gaze to hers, something of a challenge burning inside it along with the despair.

"I know you're having trouble coping,” she says, trying to keep her tone quiet without falling into the one she uses with patients. “But you have to think about the consequences your actions have on others. You're not an island, James. You can't simply kill the witness. You're not above the law anymore."

In a split second, James’ expression goes from bordering on piteous back to his in-control persona. His lips twitch as if he’s trying not to smirk.

“I’ll pay for the fine,” he says.

“Well,” Madeleine snorts. Whatever window into James’ psyche she may have had is now firmly closed. “I had no intention of paying it myself.”

“I can also sort the license thing out.”

She considers it, but declines almost immediately. The less ties he has with his old life in London, the happier she is (and the better she sleeps).

“No, it’s fine. The rest of my record is spotless. I’ll get the points back eventually.”

“Thank you,” James says. He may even mean it.

She feels silly as she does it, but she squeezes his hand and stares right into his eyes. “You have to promise me you won’t be reckless. Please.”

“I promise,” he says, bringing her hand to his mouth for a kiss.

It’s the first time she’s certain he’s lying to her.

 

*

 

“You look like you could use a drink.”

Antoine sits down next to her, where she’s hunched down on a mountain of paperwork. This patient has been given so many different diagnoses and treatments through the years she’s surprised he hasn’t gone on a killing spree yet. Sometimes her profession sucks.

“I could bathe in one,” she answers, barely lifting her head. “But I have to finish this before I go home.”

“I have to check on a patient before I leave anyway. Say, half an hour?” At her unimpressed glance, he surrenders. “And we should invite Sophie too.”

Madeleine dismisses him with a _We'll see when I'm done_. She weights her options as he leaves the room with a hopeful spring in his step. 

Things at home are... Fine. Mostly.

James is fine. Madeleine doesn't believe for a second he's cut back on the drinking, but he's got better at hiding it and she appreciates the courtesy. The DB5 sits in their garage without a scratch. As far as she knows, James hasn't used it since the ticket (again, a mere matter of carefulness, but carefulness is what she asked for, isn't it?).

He even bought her apology front row seats to a ballet she'd mentioned once in passing and didn't complain once during the whole two hours and twenty minutes of it. He's behaving as well as anyone who's abandoned his life-defining field of work for a three days long adrenaline-fuelled dalliance with someone he'll never fully trust can be expected to behave. Now that she has some detachment and a lot less happy chemicals swimming in her bloodstream, she can admit it. He's behaving - better, even. Better than expected. 

It's fucking unnerving. Madeleine's home life is nothing more than a watchful waiting for the other shoe to drop. She catches herself getting paranoid again, like she was in her teens, always scanning for cameras, for questionable men in parked cars around her family's home, for bugs and concealed weapons. Ghosts follow James like shadows, often hidden but always firmly attached to his feet. She can't tell if her father's part of James' flock or if he's only here for her. 

It's like hearing his voice, sometimes, in that fragile window before sleep. Neuroscience teaches that mild hallucinations are common during those moments, but Madeleine prefers to think about it as remembrance, her father tucking her in bed like he did when she was little.

 _A kite with no leash and no wind is just a piece of paper on the floor_ , he says. _What does that make you?_

 

*

 

In the end, the shoe's not a shoe, but a call. She never gets that drink.

 

*

 

He's not any less handsome with his face all scratched. If anything, it adds to the allure. 

He'd woken up briefly after the surgery, but he's sleeping the sleep of the recently cut open now. She can do nothing but stare.

When she leaves in the morning to go to her ward, he's still asleep. 

 

*

 

"I'm sorry," James says on the second day post-op. He sounds it.

He's also a man who's spent most of his life justifying his actions to authority figures, so it doesn't mean much.

"I'm just glad you're okay, dear."

He nods, slowly. Moving his head must still hurt. 

"He came out of nowhere, I wouldn't have stopped in time."

The police has explained it all to her already. It was either hitting the kid or steering the car into a river. He chose the river.

(Or, his brain reacted to a stimulus with a conditioned response, quicker than a reasoned choice could ever be. Same outcome.)

"And the car?" James asks after a minute of silence. His smirks pulls at the band aid on his cheek.

The air between them changes immediately. She'd kiss him for it and, after the merest hesitation, she leans down and brushes her lips against his. She needs the easy banter now, the playfulness. Everything else - the strain, the feeling of being at a crossroad -, she has to think. She's a thinker at heart, has designed her life and work around it. There's nothing coherent she can say when James can't even stand upright, nor she would inflict any of her doubts on him, not in this state.

He's alive. She's happy for it. It's an abbreviated version of it, but it's the truth.

"Calling it _car_ is rather generous at this point."

James' smirk doesn't falter. "It's faced worse."

Madeleine is almost tempted to ask for the story behind the statement. James is in a good mood for someone who's recently been in a car crash. He's also under some heavy analgesic medication. She's quite confident she'd get him to talk.

She's less confident she'd like it.

James speaks before she's taken a decision either way. "Is the steering wheel intact?"

"What?" Madeleine laughs, confused. "I think so, yes. I... " she shakes her head, studying him. He's looking at her like he knows more than the rest of the human kind, but what else is new. "I can ask, if you want?"

"No, thank you. I'll find out soon enough."

"Does it hold a special sentimental value?"

James' eyes stay fixed on her, but not out of interest. She's accepted she won't get him to drop his defences any time soon, but at least she can recognise them as such.

"Not at all," he answers after what felt at once like an eternity and a perfectly natural pause. His voice is the tiniest bit colder.

 

*

 

Madeleine vaguely registers the sound of the door opening. It's been an endless day and she's close to sleepwalking, though, so she doesn't even spare a glance to whoever has entered James' room.

It's probably a nurse, possibly one who will see her white coat, mistake her for someone actually handling James' care and leave them alone for another fifteen minutes. He can handle to take whatever medication the nurse is no doubt delivering a bit later, and Madeleine needs to make sure he's alright, get some peace of mind, then go home and faceplant on their bed for a very long time.

She definitely doesn't expect to hear a crisp English accent.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the voice says, young and brittle and strangely familiar. "I was told it was visiting hours."

When she turns, she's faced with the fidgety analyst that had been with James in Austria. Weird name, something with a letter, if she remembers well. She'd been rather preoccupied at the time.

She recognises him at the same time he recognises her and connects she's as much of a visitor as he is. Still, he remains standing at the entrance, as if rooted there with his body halfway in the direction of the exit.

Then James says, "Q," and he - _Q_ , apparently - adjusts the strap of his laptop bag on his shoulder and takes a step forward.

"Bond," Q says, noncommittal. He addresses Madeleine next, walking further into the room. She thinks he's about to shake her hand, but he doesn't. "Doctor Swann, a pleasure to meet you again."

"You look good," James says, diverting all of Q's attention back on him.

Honestly, Madeleine's too. It's not every day that your boyfriend compliments a man's appearance in front of you. 

"Can't say the same about you, I'm afraid," Q snorts, some of his composure loosening. Now that the set of his shoulders has relaxed, he looks less like he'd topple over with a nudge. 

Q is in love with James, or at least heavily infatuated. She got it with a glance in Austria, but she didn't care at the time. Now, her curiosity is instantly piqued.

Does James know? Did he make a habit of using it to his advantage? Does he like it?

Does he like _him_?

"How are the cats?" James asks, humorous and merciless, cutting through the heavy atmosphere with no regards.

Q wets his lips and drops his gaze to his shoes for a moment. 

"Fine, they're fine," he answers, lifting his eyes. He’s back to the long-suffering exasperation she'd witnessed in their previous meeting, which must be the hallmark of James' and his relationship. Madeleine idly wonders what's wrong with Q's cats.

"And the mortgage?" James continues with a widening grin. 

Q seems to appreciate this line of inquiry more.

"Ah," his lips twitch in a smile. "I got quite the raise after your last world-saving adventure."

"I didn't save anything, I just gave you the necessary intel. You did it,” James is adamant to specify, startlingly. He James isn't humble by any means, nor he's one for empty praises, not even for opportunistic purposes. 

His admiration reads genuine, and it ricochets on Q. His grin is feral when he continues. 

"It did help some people realise I'm better off on their payroll than on the loose." Q spells the words soft and posh, almost self-depreciating, but it's a poor cover. "But I'm not here to talk about politics," he finishes, and there's that. 

James sits up straighter, less indulgently, some of his well hidden military training peeking through.

"Of course."

"I'll give you a moment," she says, recognising this as the only out she'll get. Both men turn to stare at her. James' expression doesn't give anything away. Q, instead, appears slightly alarmed at the prospect of remaining alone with James. _Aren't you wise, hacker boy_. "I need to grab my things anyway. It was nice to see you, um, Q?"

Madeleine searches eye contact with him. He's fascinating in all that he tries to find shelter behind the façade of an unremarkable socially inept nerd.  Whoever he is, Q is highly competent, clearly important and definitely dangerous. He doesn't seem to be comfortable with it at all.

A lion dressed as a lamb and actually wishing he was one. Terribly, terribly fascinating.

"Oh, sorry, force of habit," Q says. This time, he gives her a hand. "Call me Chris, please."

"Madeleine," she says. His hold is firmer than she'd expected.

"I'm aware," he remarks, but in a gentle, quirky manner, tilting his head. He's handsome, if one likes the type. She can't imagine James would, but maybe James is not as predictable as she thinks.

(Or maybe he is. Young, smart, flippant, good sense of humour, with a poorly restrained propensity to unruliness. She'd bet he can shoot an apple from a hundred yards. She can see the similarities between them.)

She says her goodbyes and exits the room with no real intention to leave it for real. Thankfully, she only needs to keep the door slightly ajar to hear James' voice loud and clear.

"Is Chris your real name?"  

"Real enough."

"Christian or Christopher?"

Q doesn't answer, or his words are too low for Madeleine to make out. When he speaks again, it's all clipped professionalism.

"The Smart Blood is programmed to send an alert whenever the agent's pressure drops below a certain threshold, as may happen when one decides to take a dive down a riverbank within a speeding vehicle. It wasn't my intention to pry into your newfound privacy, Bond, forgive me. For that, I recommend removing the device from your body and sever your last tie with the services."

"I don't mind it."

"I do. There's also a small but not negligible risk of complications, such as thrombosis, embolism and infection. That normally isn't a concern with double-ohs."

"Because we're disposable walking corpses anyway?"

Q doesn't hesitate one second. He handles James with the patient disdain one might give a difficult child. She can admire that.

"Because they're often of a rather different age and health status than you are. You've just received a major surgery.”

“Mh. Doctor’s said I won’t miss the three feet of intestine. Makes things faster, I guess. Did you hack the hospital?”

"A five minutes work. The security of the internal network was laughable at best."

"I suppose I ought to be flattered."

 _What you ought to do is stop flirting with him, James_. She rolls her eyes, more at his lack of tact than because she's jealous. James is more of a love 'em and leave 'em type than a cheater anyway. 

"Intravenous injection," Q continues, ignoring James' quip. "The liquid will dissolve the Smart Blood in pieces small enough to be cleared by your kidneys. It's perfectly safe, but you may feel a bit of malaise after the administration."

"Well, get on with it then."

"What? Although following your arse to Austria wasn't enough to convince M to lock me into the basement at Six, injecting you with classified drugs in foreign hospitals during daytime just might be. I'm not sure how the compound could interact with the medication you're currently taking. I'd advise waiting for your treatment regimen to be over, after which I'm sure Doctor Swann will do a better job than I could. I tend to leave bruises."

Madeleine hasn't put a needle into the vein of a patient since med school, but at least James hasn't left her to drive off with someone else on a car she has repaired. She'll probably be more gentle on James' vessels even with the lack of practice.

"Why did you come to Austria?" James asks, because he has no sense of self preservation and generally enjoys being a nuisance.

In the background, she hears the clink of a small object being set on a flat surface.

"I don't see how that's relevant now, Bond."

"Why, Q?"

"A desperate attempt to appeal to your last shred of sanity."

"A desperate attempt to bring me back, you mean."

At that, finally, Q pauses. Madeleine mentally urges James to remember Q routinely designs, produces and distributes explosive items. She won't easily forget about the watch.

(The irony. She had thought she was only metaphorically in the company of a time bomb.)

"That was the idea," Q replies, dry. 

"Why did you come here? You don't expect me to believe that someone who watches CCTVs like it’s the evening news gives a damn about privacy, do you?"

“You left. I’m just honouring your decision.”

“As if someone with my previous security clearance could ever expect not to be monitored.”

James gives no hint that he's bothered by it, just admits it with an air of relaxed inevitability. Madeleine pictures him shrugging.

The same can't be said for Q, as much as he's struggling to keep the edge out of his tone.

“Not with this. Not with something that was meant to keep you safe.”

“It was meant to keep me under control. Don’t fool yourself, Q.”

“Then get rid of it.”

“Not before you tell me why you came. You could have sent an underling.”

Q sighs so loudly Madeleine hears it.

“M may have decided not to pursue the case, but double-oh agents can’t exactly leave MI6. It’s messy enough as it is, I’m not about to bring one of my staff into it.”

"You have an answer for everything. Have you rehearsed the speech on the plane here?" James asks, amused more than derisive. It may be worse, like salt casually sprinkled in a wound, not to truly hurt but to see the other squirm.

"Please. I took the Eurostar," Q replies. If he's squirming, it doesn't reach his voice. Madeleine guesses he's been making bullets with the salt thrown at him for many years. "And I should go, I have to catch the last one or I'll have to stay overnight."

And that. James answers promptly, but it's because he's a quick thinker. Madeleine would bet he wasn't expecting for Q to simply leave.

"We could have a drink," he proposes. If it's because this is what he does or because it's what he wants, Madeleine can't tell.

"You're on bed rest."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"I have work tomorrow."

"One would expect you to be slightly more persuasive, if you wish to bring me back."

"I'm not here to bring you back," Q says with finality. "Excuse me."

The floor creaks with footsteps approaching the door, only halted by a, "Q?"

"Mh?"

"Thanks for the tea," James says, like a punch line, and, _God_. 

CAG. Of course. C and A and G.

Cytosine Adenosine Guanine. The nucleic acid triplet encoding for glutamine. Glutamine, or... _Q_.

The postcards were for Q. Which means...

Which means James is either oblivious (unlikely), a sadist (doubtful; efficiently brutal, yes, but never gratuitous), a man with a twisted concept of letting down gently (not improbable) or. _Or_.

Madeleine mildly registers Q dismissing James with an unruffled, "What tea, 007?", but she's too lost in her head to react properly.

When Q exits, she's not far enough to put up a convincing just came back act. She's also still wearing her lab coat. 

His face remains blank as she tells him of the huge line she found at the vending machines, though, and thank God for small mercies. He even does his best to listen intently to the lie she's telling, although, as a whole, he looks like he'd like to lie down on the floor. 

"I'll let you know when he gets discharged," she offers, in a outburst of spontaneity.

"I'd rather you didn't."

The pretence dropped, Q's answer feels like a confession.

"At least take my card," she insists, taking one out of her wallet. "If you change your mind."

If there's one thing she's sure of is that this man's visit isn't a ploy of any kind. He's here because he wanted to see James alive, and to say goodbye. That sort of affection deserves respect.

Q takes the card from her hand and slips it in a pocket of his parka.

"I'm not going to, but thank you. Bye, Madeleine."

He starts walking away from her, but stops after only a handful of steps. When he turns, he seems uncertain, as if he doesn't quite dare.

"His tracking device keeps a record of his movements," he says, clinical. She lifts an eyebrow and his hesitancy disappears. "According to my calculations, he was driving at over 200 kilometres per hour when he crashed. The limit was 90."

An accusation, then? A _I would love him better than you do_? 

She can't keep the bite out of her voice as she says, “You think I should do more."

Q shakes his head.

“I think you should make sure you’re not in the car when he succeeds and offs himself.”

He leaves before she can get another word out.

 

*

 

James is sent back home not long after. Steadily, the scar from his laparotomy fades to a faint whitish line in between his abdominal muscles. They never bring up Q's visit at all.

James goes back to his strictly alcoholic therapy, but it takes him an additional two weeks before he sets the tiny box on the table in front of her and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt.

Madeleine lifts her eyes from the article she's reading and studies the box, then James. She can't read anything into either.

"Could you?" James says, looking perturbed that he has to ask. He shakes his forearm in her direction.

Madeleine takes the box in her hands and opens it. It contains a vial of clear liquid and an instructions sheet. James fishes into the pocket of his trousers and extracts a tourniquet and a sterile stringe. He lays them on the desk as well.

"Sit down," she instructs. Her work ethic screams at her not to do it, not without a proper discussion first, but she knows the moment she hesitates he'll steal the syringe and stab it into his arm himself.

James' veins are perfectly palpable even without a tourniquet, but she takes her time with it, securing it tight enough it must hurt a bit. James makes no sound. 

He remains still while she prepares the syringe, both hands clenched into fists. A vein runs like a rope across the border between arm and forearm. It'll be easy.

Madeleine brings the tip of the needle to his skin, then whips it away almost immediately. She holds the needle away from him and stares. He could do it alone, but he came to her. Was it a reassurance for her, that he's done with them? Or did he not trust himself to go through with it?

He's the picture of relaxation, sitting with his legs wide apart on the chair, slumped. There may be no thought behind what he's doing. The angle of his lips is tilted with the irony that characterises his baseline attitude toward life, but he is, at the core, following an order.

"If you want to say something, say it," James suggests, unconcerned. "My arm is starting to tingle."

She opens her mouth, but her mind suddenly blanks. She finds the vein on her first try.

 

*

 

They both expect something to happen after that, but nothing comes. Not even a congratulatory tin of Earl Grey.

It should be a relief, but it isn't.

 

*

 

"I'll be back Thursday evening," Madeleine calls, her eyes studying her figure in the mirror. She straightens her jacket just in time for James to appear in the bedroom, circle her waist with his arms and nullify her work.

"I'll pick you up from the airport."

He noses at her hair. She keeps it at the same the length it was when they met. From an external glance, it seems like time hasn't passed at all.

"You don't have a car," she points out.

"I'll use yours."

"No need." She turns around and his arms fall to his sides. She readjusts the jacket. "I think Sophie's bringing her car."

James sighs. "We wouldn't want her to feel lonely."

"You won't even notice I'm gone," she reassures for no reason. 

They don't kiss before she leaves.

 

*

 

Her presence at the conference is aesthetic at best. It's all paid, though, so she's not complaining. She pays attention to the two presentations that deal with topics she's interested in and spends the rest of the day napping with her eyes open and beating her _Crossy Road_ record. 

By evening, Madeleine's done so much non-thinking about James that everything comes spilling out after an embarrassingly small amount of tequila.

"Right." Sophie thrusts another drink in her hands and sits down somewhere in her frontal eye field. It may be in the seat in front of her. It may not. Madeleine's not at her soberest. "Short summary. You met the guy at your father's funeral -"

"I said ‘sort of’ at the funeral."

"- which, Mads, bad place to meet anyone."

" _Sort of_."

The three pair of Sophie’s eyes in front of her blink with judgement.

"Three days later he's left his career, his country and all his earthly possessions but a sports car behind, thanks to the magical powers of your vagina."

"It was an instant intellectual connection."

" _Three days_."

"It may have been four. You know, time zones."

Sophie snorts and chuckles at once. The sound she makes has Madeleine attempting to drown into her margarita.

"I'm not even going to ask,” Sophie sighs. “So, he resigns from his military position or whatever a man with those muscles and that hair cut could be doing, to move to Paris and be your," she looks intensely into the clear liquid inside her glass, which apparently provides a satisfactory answer, "trophy boyfriend, you could say?"

"We had a month-long holiday before that."

"This story gets more inspirational by the minute."

Madeleine, in a fit of desperation she will later redact from her memories of the night, drops her head on the table.

"Listen," Sophie says, petting her hair. "I get it, alright? You feel bad kicking out someone who left his life behind for you. But, in the end, you have to do what you want. What do you want?”

"Mh," she hums, her voice muffled. "I want to get a dog."

Sophie's hand stills, but Madeleine makes a displeased and undignified noise and it resumes its soothing motion.

"A... dog?"

"Yes. James is a cat person. Something related to his dead parents."

"His dead pa–“ Sophie gasps, trying to suppress a laugh in her throat. “I am increasingly convinced he was less attracted to your vagina and more to your ability to prescribe things that could soothe his multiple unresolved issues.”

“Can we stop talking about my vagina?” Madeleine pleads, lifting her head just enough to glare at Sophie but careful not to jostle her hand. “God, how did I get myself into this? I’m a rational person. I have a PhD.”

“It’s fine, dear,” Sophie soothes, patting her head. “You were dick-dazed.”

Madeleine groans into the wood under her cheek.

“Dongfounded.”

“ _Sophie_.”

“Prickstified.”

“Are you done?”

“Yes.” Sophie puts her hands on her shoulders and drapes herself over her back. “Don’t worry. You only need to get Mister Britain on his sports car and send him back to London, now that you’re not overknobbed anymore.”

This time, Madeleine laughs, although it may partially be because Sophie’s face is very close to hers.

“The car needs to be, mh,” she makes a vague gesture with her hand, “repaired.”

“He can take the plane, then. Or the Eurostar. Paris and London are extremely well connected.”

“I haven’t even decided if I do want to break up with him,” Madeleine mumbles, but she feels her resolve slipping. It would be so easy to follow what Sophie’s suggesting…

“Alright, take your time,” Sophie whispers into her ear, her breath hot and sweet. It isn’t nice at all of her. “Just, don’t let him cockfuse you.”

“Sophie!”

 

*

 

What used to be tentative awkwardness becomes full-fledged tension after her return. However, they give themselves time for even the last vestiges of their relationship to shutter until they’re walking barefoot on a sea of shreds.

Somehow, they still hold hands while doing it.

They’ve seen each other shaking hands with death and they’ve tried to squeeze as much happiness they could from the ruins of their pasts. They don’t have to talk to agree to let go.

She gets the DB5 repaired – it’s a sentimental gesture, but he is, as much as he won’t ever admit it, a sentimental man, and will appreciate it in its bittersweetness.

One morning, she leaves the car keys on the shelf he’s claimed as his and goes to work.

She knows she won’t find him when she comes back.

 

*

 

Where the tea tins and the bulldog used to stay, she puts a box of dog treats, as a reminder of sorts.

She wonders if Sophie likes pugs.


	2. Q - part 1

Q had had control over his life. It had happened. It had been brief, shaky, probably just an illusion, but it had happened.

He remembers that time fondly. He'd been at the top of his field. His criminal record had been swiped clean. His trousers were all tailored to make his arse look both amazing and very important. His hair retained some semblance of order for at least the first two hours of his workday.

It had seemed, for once, that everything in his life had worked itself out.

Then.

He can rationally recognise that there are many reasons for his premature grey hair. Those comprise, but aren’t limited to a direct involvement in the death of his former boss and abetment of the murder of a government employee at the hands of his current boss.

All of this, however, followed one ill-fated afternoon in front of a Turner painting. Q can hardly consider this a coincidence. 

He can, technically, when he isn't brooding in front of the menu of a Chinese restaurant, but now doesn't seem the time to be technical. Fuck, he used to love that bloody painting.

"Twat," Q mutters under his breath. The Chinese lady at the register gives him a disapproving glance but, to be fair, he's never received a different treatment from her. He'd tried with tips, but she'd glared harder, so now he sits quietly in a corner as he waits for his sweet corn soup to get ready.

It's after he finishes counting the customers, the tiles in the restaurant's ceiling and the (disappointingly low) number of times the letter Q is used in the menu that he caves and takes out his phone.

The good news is, he hadn't been hallucinating. There is a human-shaped heat signal coming from his apartment. If Q's surveillance system is to be trusted (it is), said heat signal is currently perusing the contents of his kitchen.

The bad news is how blond, square-shouldered and generally Bond-looking such signal appears when Q pulls up the surveillance video.

"Er," Q starts, pocketing the phone and trying to smile at the lady in the way he uses when his cats are one startled movement away from sending an expensive piece of equipment crashing on the ground. She glares. He finds comfort in the unchanged pattern. "I'd like to consume my dinner here, if it's alright."

He can see six empty tables from where he’s sitting, so.

The lady grunts and stands up.

"And a bottle of white wine to drink, please," Q adds as she leads him to a table.

At least that way they'll be on even footing.

 

*

 

Despite knowing precisely where and how Bond is positioned, Q still congratulates himself for not startling as he opens the door and walks through the foyer and into the living room.

He has a line ready. A line he has prepared in the twelve minutes he’s spent on his doorstep, contemplating the veining of marble floor and cursing himself for not finishing the entire wine bottle. The line is, of course, nowhere to be found at the moment.

Bond is sitting on his sofa with a full glass in his hand.

His eyes are very blue. The gun on the coffee table in front of him is very much Q’s and very charged.

“I need to find a better hiding place,” Q says, nodding in its direction. He only fumbles a bit.

“In your defence, I had a lot of time.” Bond puts the glass down, next to the gun. “Are you trying to set some sort of overtime record?”

“I wasn’t working. I mean, I was, but then I wasn’t, and –“ and he’s not about to discuss his lonesome dinner with Bond. He licks his lips. “What is it? Another video? A lead? Do you need a referral letter?”

“No.”

Bond smirks. Q rolls his eyes.

“What, then? Did you finally get Doctor Swann killed?”

"Madeleine is fine,” Bond grumbles, twirling the glass in his hand and watching the liquid swirl. He looks rough. He’s unshaved, still with his coat on even if Q keeps the heat so high the average person could walk around in a swimsuit.

He's tense. It doesn’t become him.

"She broke up with you,” Q guesses.

"In a sense."

"Did she get tired of being with a man twice her age?"

"She's two years older than you,” Bond sighs, like he’s doing an enormous effort to put up with Q.

It's a non sequitur, but Q has enough dignity left not to point it out.

“Bond.” Q clenches his fists against his sides. “Why did you come here?”

Bond lifts the glass in his direction and says, “A drink. I came for a drink.”

Q doesn’t know what else he could have possibly expected.

“Splendid, you’re all set then. Drink up, and you can be on your way.”

Bond sets the glass down. It’s still full.

"There's a family of four living in my flat."

“Ah.” Q tries to make a sympathetic expression, but he’s likely just bordering on frenzied. “Bit of an annoyance, that.”

Bond shrugs. “The world keeps spinning. MI6, even faster.”

It’s not bitter, nor quite resigned.

Bond wasn’t bitter when the British government decided it was its right to know his every movement. When Doctor Swann walked away before the last confrontation with Blofeld. In a hospital bed, after death had been his steady companion for years, but decided to fail him in the end.

Q’s fought tooth and nail for the kind of power that allows him the most control possible. He can’t even fathom the blind passivity with which Bond lets his days pass.

Maybe that’s why Bond came to him.

“I don’t handle accommodations,” Q says. “You should talk to Moneypenny about it. I’d imagine she’d be your first choice.”

Bond quirks his head, intrigued. “What makes you say that?”

“You trust her. You like her.”

The words hang between them for long.

It’s stupid, childish, but Q always feels like he’s sitting an exam and Bond’s the professor. Or the subject.

It doesn’t matter. He’s always failing.

"Eve doesn't want to be involved with me,” Bond says, crisp instead of his usual rumble.

It’s belittling, baring. Q sweats into his too many layers, but he may as well be naked.

He asks, “And I do?”

Bond’s eyes go straight to the foyer. The cupboard is barely visible from here, but Q knows what he means. Q should have binned the postcards. He’d even crumpled the first one, and then he’d smoothed it out and left it there, the first thing he sees when he gets home.

Exhaustion clings to his bones like water to clothes, the drag almost unbearable.

"It's too late for this," Q says when his fingers no longer itch to dig out the second gun and empty it into Bond's stomach. He checks his watch and gives a dry chuckle. If it's directed at the time, or at Bond, or at the shambles his life is in, he doesn't know. "Or too early. I'm going to bed. If you're still here in six hours, we'll talk. Otherwise, so long. Oh, I don't recommend using the red quilt if you don't fancy waking up with cat fur in places where you wouldn't want cat fur to be."

"You want me to sleep on the couch," Bond says. Q gets a good bit of pleasure from his surprise.

"Actually, I want you to go back to Paris or, more in general, go wherever you want that is far away from here and possibly not reachable if not by plane."

"You took a plane to Austria."

"You're quite the broken record, you know."

"You have a guest room."

"I do. You'll find I can be rather petty when pissed off. Goodnight, Bond. Enjoy the couch." Q walks past the couch – past Bond – as quickly as he can. He only stops when he’s almost out of the room. He turns. Bond’s on his feet, looking at him.

"And put the gun back where you found it,” Q orders, then leaves.

 

*

 

“Is the mortgage for the flat or the heating?” Bond asks in lieu of good morning. Q takes in the sight before him and considers retreating to his bedroom and never leaving. He _could_ do is work remotely. 

Bond’s doing something that seems awfully akin to cooking in Q’s kitchen. He’s also only wearing an undershirt.

Admittedly, it doesn’t feel like a good morning.

“I get cold,” Q says, refusing to get defensive. It’s his apartment. If he wants to keep the temperature at tropical levels, he bloody well can. “What are you doing?”

Bond doesn't look up from the omelette he's plating and, patiently, says, "I ordered breakfast."

Q blinks. "This isn't a hotel."

"Some places deliver."

"At eight in the bloody morning?"

Bond glances up from the crème fraîche he's scooping next to the omelette and smiles like this is a normal occurrence for him. "If you know the right places."

"Am I about to be bribed with bacon?" Q asks, taking a seat at the kitchen island. He's long learned it's better to simply go along with madness.

"Of course not," Bond chastises, settling a plate in from of him. "You're a vegetarian."

At Q's perplexed and slightly flabbergasted stare, he adds, "I went through your fridge."

He doesn't sound apologetic at all.

Q digs into his omelette, because it's a better use of his mouth than telling Bond that going through people's things is considered a big no-no.

"What would I bribe you for?" Bond asks before Q can finish swallowing his first bite.

Q snorts, grateful that the eggs went down the right way and he's not spluttering in front of Bond. Bond, who makes Q feel at once like a mere tool and the most incompetent person on the planet. "I don't know. Put a good word for you with M? Sneak you into the SIS building to catch the man yourself? Do a MOT on the DB5? The possibilities are endless."

Bond cuts a square out of his omelette, puts it in his mouth and chases it with a sip of tea. 

"You're resentful."

"Yes," Q says, because there's no reason to deny it. "But not for the reasons you're thinking." 

It crosses his mind how dangerous it is to make assumptions about former killers' thought processes. He ignores it. "You took advantage on me. Not surprisingly, since you take advantage of everyone and everything. I could handle it when it was for England. But," he pauses, his gaze dropping to the table, "the driving license." 

"I didn't call you," Bond says, as if it matters. As if Q wasn't aware of anything that happens in his own branch. 

When Q dares to look at him, his expression's blank.

"No, and Tanner's loyalties are still with you. The same can't be said of the tech he reached out to." 

Bond gives his trademark half -smirk and quips, "Have you brainwashed them all?"

"It's not like it was classified information. I was told as gossip," Q says, turning most of his attention back to his dish. "Something about 007 fucking off and still expecting us to wipe his arse." 

"Colourful."

Q smiles. "They are young." 

He finishes the omelette and brings the plate to the sink. He crouches down to pour some food into the cats' bowls, even though the traitors haven't emerged yet. Like clockwork, he hears the soft thud of pawns approaching as soon as the first pellet of dry food hits the bowls.

"Good morning," Q greets as the cats eye Bond suspiciously and follow a path as far away from him as they can. "Nice of you to join us."

The cats brush against his legs, leaving a trail of fur on his work clothes, and dig into the food. Q is only a bit put out that they aren't attacking Bond on sight. They did hide in his bedroom for the whole night, so Q wasn't expecting much to being with.

"What are they called?" Bond asks. He doesn't leave his seat, but he extends a hand in the cats' direction. 

"The Devon Rex's Tinker, the Birman's Taylor. Both females."

Bond wiggles his fingers, catching Tinker's attention. She tilts her head and blinks her gigantic blue eyes at him.

Bond murmurs, "Le Carré fan?", but he's mostly focused on Tinker's careful movements toward him.

Taylor sends them both an unimpressed look. She's always been Q's favourite.

"Taylor Swift," Q answers, reaching down to pat Taylor on the soft fur of her head. "My cousin named the first. I named the second to make future explanations more dignified."

Bond glances at him. "Who's Taylor Swift?"

Q sighs and straightens up, ignoring Taylor's unhappy head-butt on his leg. 

"What are you doing here, Bond?"

Bond removes his index finger from between Tinker’s fangs and rubs his hands on his thighs.

“Q,” he says, with the half-annoyed, half-patronising tone he uses when he’s asked for details of missions. “I haven’t the faintest.”

 "You haven't the faintest."

Bond purses his lips. Q interprets it as the body language equivalent of hitting a brick wall.

He decides to be methodical about it.

"Okay, let's start with the obvious question," he starts, clearing his throat. "Are you coming back to Six?"

"I don't know." Bond stands up and moves to Q's sink to turn on the faucet.

"What does it mean you don't know?" Q looks at him, wide-eyed, and scrambles to his feet. He leans against the counter with his arms crossed. "Leave the plates, my housekeeper's coming later."

Q's not sure he's actually coming today, but the image of Bond cleaning his dishes might be too surreal to handle.

Bond, as it happens, ignores him.

"What else am I going to do," he doesn't quite ask, searching for Q's washing-up liquid.

"On your left," Q instructs, because he has bigger battles to fight. "What were you planning to do after mandatory retirement?"

He avoids cringing at the words, because that's what it is and he's not going to be delicate with Bond. Bond frowns, but it may be because the water isn't at the temperature he likes. Q isn't going to make guesses. 

"Decompose," Bond says, squirting Fairy on a sponge. The air fills with the chemical smell of lemon.

Q can't help a chuckle, and Bond turns, surprised by the noise. He watches Q curiously, a smile of his own curving his mouth.

"Do you want my opinion?" Q offers. 

Bond sighs and grabs the first plate. "Not really, but that has never stopped you before."

Q tilts his head at him. "For the sake of full disclosure. You know I read your file, yeah?"

"Yes,” Bond answers, and then, “Are you going to dry or just watch?”

Q reaches for a rag and accepts the rinsed plate from Bond’s hands. It’s welcomed, it gives him something to do with his hands and eyes as he trespasses whatever regard he might have for privacy and politeness. 

“You quit after Montenegro and came back mainly to embark on a personal revenge spree. You quit again after Turkey and it took MI6 literally going up in flames for you to return, and you remained because you had to fulfil M's last order. Moneypenny told me about the video, by the way.”

He chances a glance at Bond, and finds him stuck with his hands still under the running water, his expression stony, his eyes glued on him. It occurs to Q that this may be the first time someone’s being frank with him since Mansfield died. Doctor Swann could have tried, but there’s a gap between trying blindly and knowing facts.

“This is the third time in ten years of service you've tried to quit. I’m going to go out on a limb here, and hazard that maybe you _want_ to quit.” Q dries the cup in his hands with more thoroughness than required. His voice takes that irritating edge it always does when Q’s nervous and overcompensating for it.

“You should give yourself time to explore civilian life. If no other relatives of yours interfere, the double-oh program should still be standing if you take some months to meditate."

"Meditate," Bond repeats, savouring the taste of the word in his mouth.

"Yeah,” Q nods, more confident now that Bond appears more nonchalant than affronted. “It's done with your brain. Don't know if you're familiar."

"Heard of it, but never tried."

Bond passes him the other cup, their fingers brushing a bit too long for it to be entirely coincidental. His hands are hot, not just from the water. It isn’t the first time they touch but, at the National Gallery, Q had been too preoccupied with _blue blue eyes_ and _don’t cock it_ _up_ to focus on the man’s hands. He’s always imagined them as cold as a gun barrel, but even guns heat up while you're firing them.

“I’m not a civilian,” Q says, taking the cup forcefully. “I haven’t been an ordinary citizen in a long time. I don’t even remember it.”

Bond turns the water off and studies him. He pries the rag from Q’s hold, and it feels like a loss when it slips away. It’s ridiculous, like anything that Bond stirs in him.

“You haven’t been with MI6 for that long. And you weren’t in the army, or in the navy.”

Q rolls his eyes, because Bond is asking for answers he already knows. “What I did before MI6 is none of your business,” he says, which, he realises, is not as different from a confession as he’d wished.

“I had a hunch.” Bond grins, pleased as if Q had just given a detailed account of his freelance work from the age of sixteen onwards. “Where are you going with this?”

“Whatever you’re looking for, I’m not the right person for it.”

“I disagree,” Bond says. And then, when Q doesn’t react in any way, “I’m sorry about the driving license.”

Q stays silent, waiting for Bond to elaborate. Surely, he must have given one non half-arsed apology in his life. He’s got to know how it’s done.

Q stares. Bond stares. Tinker, who’s climbed onto the kitchen counter, stares.

“Is that it?” Q sticks his neck out and makes a go-on gesture with his hand.

“You can say no,” Bond says, matter-of-factly.

There’s a water stain on Bond’s undershirt. Q’s eyes have been flickering to it for the past five minutes. If Q wanted to say no to whatever Bond has in mind, Bond’s shirt wouldn’t be neatly folded on Q’s sofa.

Still, Q takes a calming breath and says, “You haven’t actually asked a question.”

Bond smirks like a cat with a mouse’s tail under his pawn.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he says, shifting closer to Q, and _good_. This is an easy one.

“Not a bloody chance,” Q answers. He has to monitor 002 in Germany. His evening’s rather busy already.

Once the moment of vindication has passed, though, Bond is still there, looking at Q expectantly. Q takes a step back as if pulled by a rope tied around his stomach, because, fuck, Bond. Dinner. Bond.

Bond stays put, but his grin widens, and it’d look great with a plate smashed against it.

“Tomorrow, then,” he suggests. The closest plate is no farther than four inches from Q.

“I have to think,” Q manages, a bit choked. He has to _go_. “I have to go, now, I -” he’s already dressed and ready, but he has to brush his teeth. Does he have a toothbrush at MI6? Is Bond going to judge him if he leaves? Does he care?

The stain still hasn’t completely dried on Bond’s shirt, still strategically transparent.

“Lunch, not dinner,” he says as he walks to his coat rack. Lunch is short and informal. He can do lunch.

“You take a lunch break?” Bond asks, and Q should have shot him when he had the chance. God, hasn’t he learnt already? Always follow Moneypenny’s lead.

“It’s my department,” Q says, his hand already on the front door’s handle. “I do whatever I want.”

He opens the door and calls back, “Get out as you got in, would you?”, then closes it behind him. This time, he doesn’t look back.

He steps out and presses his back to the nearest wall. He handled it well, he reckons.

 

*

 

002’s mission is a shot in the dark. Literally.

“I can’t see shit,” 002 says into her earpiece. She’s a delight.

“That is rather the point, Dixon.”

Q checks the infrared feeds again. They will have a twenty feet window in which Dixon could have a shot, and Q will have to guide her through it, since she’s not positioned close enough for a direct infrared or heat signal to be useful. Q had given her the glasses anyway, because possibly throwing away equipment was preferable to arguing with a double-oh.

She has the best marksmanship scores in the services, which means Q’s also going to get the blame for this if something goes wrong. Somehow, it doesn’t make this mindless game of hide and seek any less boring.

Q’s considering opening up a Sudoku in one of the windows when Lafitte, the target, makes its appearance, surrounded by an entourage of bodyguards.

That’s not the only bad news.

Fuck. Lafitte always wears shoes with a one-inch plateau, and they’ve set the rifle accordingly. Tonight, he seems to be wearing sodding flip flops.

One inch is a bloody big change at almost four hundred yards.

“002, adjust four MOA up.”

She does, but the calculated trajectory is still too high, and Lafitte is approaching the designated target point. They have six seconds, if that.

“Just – Dixon, tilt it higher.”

“ _Tilt_?” 002 whisper-shouts, no doubt not to jostle the rifle. “How can I fucking – have you ever fucking held a rifle?”

“Don’t bloody breathe,” Q orders. He can hardly recognise which one is Lafitte and which are the bodyguards. Shit. _Three, two_. “Shoot.”

It’s bordering miraculous, but Lafitte goes down like a sack of spuds.

“Uh,” Q exhales into the microphone. He lets his head fall against the back of his chair. “Good job, 002.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for nothing,” Dixon mutters. “Fucking _tilt_ , God.”

Q spots R approaching him from the corner of his eye, and only briefly wonders if she’s checking up on him because she’s his subordinate, or because she’s someone else’s. It’s getting harder to tell this days.

"Can you handle the rest of it?" he asks her as soon as she's within hearing range. He won’t let his paranoia get in the way of the job.

"Why, boss, you getting too good to book a plane ticket?" 002 gently contributes from the speaker.

"I'm not your boss," Q says. The reply has become an automatism more than a decision.

"You are, a bit," R says, shooting him a sympathetic look. Q doesn't know which sentence she's referring to. 

It doesn't matter, because she sends a file from her tablet to the Q-branch's screens before he or 002 can get in any more banter. The same man appears in all the pictures. Q knows it's Robert Ross because he's read his file. He's been officially inactive and unofficially very good at hiding for a decade. From what Q remembers, he goes by the name The Panther, which is an evident sign of delusion, but also strangely appropriate.

"New Intel from Avery -"

"Who the fuck is Avery?"

"The field agent assigned as your backup, 002," R replies patiently. "Seems another old friend of ours is attending Lafitte's little supervillain gathering. I'm sending you the images now."

"Oh," 002 gasps, as if she'd been told she's getting double dessert after dinner. "And what am I meant to do with him?"

"Get him alive." R steps closer to the microphone, her voice dropping lower. "Alive and _whole_ , Rose, do you understand me?"

_Rose_ gives the most acquiescent sneer in her repertoire. It's good enough for them.

R nods in satisfaction, but her smile turns into a grimace as she addresses Q. "Orders from above say you have to finish the mission yourself, I'm sorry."

"Come on, boss,” Dixon says, taking the situation considerably better than him. “We’ve got some poaching to do.”

"I'm not your boss," Q protests weakly, suppressing a shiver that has nothing to do with the mission. Neither 002 nor R deign him with a reply.

 

*

 

Bond leaves him a note with the name of a café, a time and a phone number, and no other trace of his passage. It's relieving - Q drops hid hands on the table and lets out a breath he feels he's been holding for ages -, but it makes him eager to see Bond the next day.

He spends his time at home trying to quench those unwelcome thoughts through pet therapy. He does his best to arrive at least fifteen minutes late to their appointment.  

Of course, all the pedestrian crossing lights are green and both of his trains arrive just as he's walking down the stairs to the platforms. He ends up being two minutes early, because Bond's influence apparently extends to London's traffic.

Bond is already there.

“Did you think?” Bond asks, once they’re done with greetings and orders. He’s neither worried nor expectant, which is a bit rude. He’s also wearing a pocket square, and Q refuses to be intimidated by someone with a glorified hankie stuffed in his breast pocket.

“Yes.” Q takes out his phone and opens a new message to Bond. “Have you found a flat?”

“I stayed at a hotel last night.”

Q glances up from his screen. The tie-pocket square combination matches Bond’s eyes.

“Find a flat,” he says, and types into the blank text as he waits for Bond to make an affirmative noise. When Bond does, he sends the message. “This is the gym where I went for fighting classes.”

“Sparring with double-ohs wasn’t challenging enough for you?” Bond asks. His hand hovers where his phone must have vibrated, but he doesn’t take it out.

“It’s hard to find someone who’ll punch you convincingly when you make their guns.”

Bond grins at Q, an amused _fair enough_ , and Q can’t help but grin back, even if the coddling used to annoy the shit out of him.

“Go there,” Q continues. “Tell them I sent you. They’re mostly ex-military, they can help you find a job.”

“A job.” Bond’s lips do a weird twitchy thing.

A waiter appears with their food, and Q takes advantage of the interruption to prepare his words. Half of him wants to fall at Bond’s feet and call it a day, because he’s wanted Bond for so long and so pathetically and Bond is offering _something_ , whatever it is, and it can be enough. The other half won’t let him be swept away by Bond’s tide.

None of him wants to flee, and that’s the measure of his stupidity.

Eventually, the waiter leaves. Q clears his throat.

“I told you I did think,” he says. Bond, with fork and knife already hovering over his steak, puts them down. “These are my conditions. A house, a training schedule and a job. Are you fine with it?”

“I am,” Bond says amiably, and picks up his cutlery.

Q fixes Bond with a hard stare. "Are you? Really?"

He's met with nothing more than a shrug.

"You're not as unpredictable as you think you are," Bond says, and then, "You didn't go into work this morning."

"No," Q says. "Is it the tie that gave it away?"

Bond smiles. "The hair. It's still combed. Long night?"

Q explains, briefly, and he complains, not so briefly, because he's tired and running himself to the ground and Bond is there, nodding, smirking in all the right moments, filling the gaps Q can't say out loud without breaching confidentiality. 

Despite his intentions, the conversations gets hopelessly derailed, so much that Q has thirty minutes to get to Six when he remembers this was supposed to be a negotiation, not a chitchat.

“Apparently, it was fine as long as I was the fuck up who let Silva hack our system,” he says, turning his phone face down on the table. He can stay another five minutes. “Now that I’m doing my job properly, I, and I’m quoting M here, make people _nervous_.”

“A surprisingly smart sentiment for the Ministry.” Bond’s sipping coffee, slumped back and completely at ease if not for the wrinkle in the middle of his forehead. It deepens as he speaks. “What do they know about your past?”

“Not much.” The old M knew. Tanner knows some things. Mallory has access to his files, but reading a file is akin to reading random pages off a novel. It’s not what James means, though. “I never did anything that brought damage to England, anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean you’d never.”

“Do you think me capable of treason?”

Bond sets the cup down and leans with his elbows on the table. “I think you capable of anything you set that funny mind of yours to.”

Bond’s face is open and amused, but not mocking, and Q knows he means it. The same stupid, unwavering trust that made him drop the future of the world’s security into Q’s palm while he played hide and seek with his brother.

Q knows Bond means it and can’t stand it.

“I’m late for work.”

He pushes his chair back, and it’s the second  -or the hundredths- time he runs from Bond. But it’s not running, it’s _resisting_.

“All right,” Bond says. "Have a good day, Q."

Q stands. Gathers his things. "You too, Bond."

And that’s it. That can so easily be it, and then Q will just have to wait for Bond to text him, like he did for his high school crush, and – _oh, fuck it_.

“Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night?”

Bond’s forehead relaxes as he smiles. “Gladly.”

“I’ll text you when I’m done. Pick a place.” He should be moving, but he’s still standing there, hovering. “Nothing French,” he adds, quite stupidly.

“Not a single _cédille_ ,” Bond promises, his mouth doing something wonderful around the double L, and Q beats a hasty retreat.

 

*

 

Q’s uncle used to say Q didn’t have the built of a hunter. He said it in a snarling, dismissive tone, and it took little Q years before he understood what that statement was a euphemism for.

Uncle John’s incessant comments only made Q’s father’s attempts more aggressive, insisting Q’s preys be more and bigger, and his kills swifter, cleaner.

Q’s always thought his mother, the mathematician, had been the biggest influence of what he would become as a man, but his father closed-mindedness is just as responsible.

As his mother’s guidance made him curious, skilled, ever striving to improve, his father’s determination made him ambitious, reckless.

Unable to rest. Not until the prey lies on the ground, bleeding until its heart stops.

The Panther is but an animal, after all.

 

*

 

It's past midday the next day when Moneypenny sets a lunch bag on Q's desk, careful not to contaminate his work but still forceful enough to be dramatic. It seems you can take the field out of the agent, but not the flair.

The bag bears the name of the café where he and Bond had lunch yesterday. Q can't tell if it's a scolding or the closest thing to an approval he's going to get.

He ignores how badly this display of power from the agency settles in his stomach. It does make his moral dilemma easier, so he focuses on that.

They know. If they have a problem with it, they can say it.

(or save it, for when they want to lock Q in a dark room and throw away the key.)

"So," Moneypenny prompts, stealing a chair from a nearby desk and gracefully sitting on it. She pries her own lunch bag open. “He’s back.”

“The Panther?” Q inspects the contents of the wrapping paper. At least it’s not the same sandwich. “Yes, quite the nuisance, it was such a busy week already.”

Moneypenny’s voice remains no less vibrant than before. “Do you wish to drag this out, Q?”

Q takes a bite. It can’t be a serious conversation if he has his mouth full. “I’m not going to admit to anything.”

“Let’s talk in hypotheticals, then.” Moneypenny crosses her ankles, her pointy stilettos arranged in a lovely parallel line. “If he were back, would you know what he’d be doing?”

“No,” Q answers. It’s not even a lie.

“Would you know what you’d be doing?”

Q pauses, then. His mind is blank. No – not blank, but stuck. Stuck on Bond’s hands on his, as they wash dishes in Q’s kitchen. Stuck on a fantasy so naïve and juvenile, and yet he craves it. For so long, he’s traded his own desires for a power he has no use for, for a country that never denied betraying his own people for some higher-up’s idea of greater good.

Q pauses, long enough for Moneypenny to speak again.

“I’m here as your friend now,” she says, gently. “The next time, I might not be.”

“I know.” _I know what I’m doing_ , he almost says, but _seriously_. “I make people nervous.”

“Oh, honey,” Moneypenny says, just shy of condescending. “ _Nervous_ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

 

*

 

"So you are aware of what your correct size is,” Bond comments as the waitress checks their reservation.

He brought them to a hip, vegan restaurant. Q put on his fancier and _gayer_ suit – the one with the shiny paisley jacket – because he wanted to provoke. Here, it fits in better than Bond’s grey three piece does.

It’s statistically unlikely that Bond never had a dalliance with a man. That doesn’t make it any easier to picture.

"I thought, he’s going to look like a pinstriped peacock, so might as well,” Q replies, more concerned with how Bond’s hand has been drifting near the small of his back since they’ve left the car.

The waitress smiles her radiant customer smile and leads them to a quiet, secluded table. Bond refrains from taking Q’s chair out.

"You look good,” Bond says, amused. “That’s all I meant.”

"Moneypenny caught me almost blinding myself to put these bloody contacts on. I'm never going to live it down. Not worth it.”

Q lifts his eyes to Bond’s face, sure to find a cheeky grin there, but Bond is hiding behind the menu.

"You still haven't talked to her,” Q guesses.

"No."

"You should."

"I will,” Bond says. “Is wine vegan?"

Q takes it as the subject change it is and chuckles. “I’m sure they’ll manage something.”

They do.

They get vegan wine with their vegan antipasti and vegan lasagne, and Q has the delight of watching Bond swear, through gritted teeth, he _‘almost couldn’t tell’_ to an unimpressed waiter.

“So,” Bond says, after waiting for Q to be well into his second glass of vegan wine. “I went to your gym.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. They didn’t seem to know a Q. They did know a Chris though. Scrawny little guy with glasses.”

“Not me then,” Q pouts. “Must have been another Chris.”

Bond just smiles as he refills Q’s glass. "Has MI6 not taught you not to give your real name to strangers?"

"My real name is Kester," Q says. Tomorrow, he'll blame the vegan wine.

Bond hides his surprise well. "Scottish parents?"

"No, just sadistic. I've been going by Chris my whole life."

"My point still stands, then."

"They don't even share the initial. It's an alias like any."

"And yet," Bond says, folding his arms on the empty table, "one could march into Oxbridge and ask for news of the brilliant Chris, the one with the hair and the computers."

"You must be out of practice." Q leans forward as well, their breaths threatening to blow out the ridiculous candle between them. "I went to neither, and no one knew about the computers. I'm a chemical engineer. I've liked to make things explode long before you came along."

"You're just shattering my dreams today, Q," Bond says, the flickering of the candle drawing shadows on his pleased grin. 

"I was also never brilliant," Q continues. This isn't Bond tricking him into sharing his tragic backstory. This is Q evening the field. "I mean, I was. I just did poorly on purpose. I didn't need the attention. I think M liked that."

Bond acquiesces with a tilt of his head. "Stealth makes for good recruits."  

"For those of us lacking the orphan card."

"Are they --"

"Alive and well?” Q says. “Yes. They live in Cornwall, by the sea. Lovely place."

"What do they think you do?"

"No lie in particular. They never asked outright. They're just relieved I'm not running around the world with a bounty on my head anymore, I suppose."

"How does a quiet boffin like you earn a bounty on his head?"

"Are you being patronising in hopes I decide to prove you wrong and start bragging about my criminal record?"

Q's question is followed by a long pause, in which Bond stares unnervingly at him while making the bloody vegan wine swim into the glass.

"I didn't steal credit card information, if that's what you're asking," he says while Bond drinks. His eyes trail along the movement of Bond's Adam's apple.

"It isn't."

Q's only ever had this conversation once. He'd stared at the ceramic Union Jack bulldog on the desk for its entirety.

He has nothing to watch now.

"I worked on contracts. I was young, bored. Awfully skilled, probably quicker than I am now. Always looking for a new challenge."

"I'm guessing you weren't cheap."

"No. But it's never been about the money. Even now, we could both be doing jobs that pay us so much more."

"I was quite well paid,” Bond says.

"No you weren't. You should aim for an administrative position, that's where the money's at."

"I knew Moneypenny's choice couldn't be just about my shoulder."

"How are things going on that side?" Q asks. There’s been enough banter. Bond still has a promise to keep.

"Bit stiff. Would need more PT.”

"Bond,” Q says. His stern tone is betrayed by his hopeless grin.

"I have a job interview tomorrow,” Bond says, raising his palms in surrender.

Q’s eyes widen. "Seriously? What job?"

"I'm not telling you. It's bad luck."

"Since when are you superstitious?"

"I'm trying to be a regular civilian.”

"I don't think a belief that random events have any bearing on future outcomes is paramount to the experience."

"That's because you're such a Capricorn,” Bond says in a cutting deadpan, and Q can’t help the snorty-giggly noises he dissolves into.

"Dessert?" Q asks, an edge of shakiness in his voice.

"Sure,” Bond says. “I can tell the quinoa cake is going to be life-changing.”

 

*

 

“You had it repaired after your accident,” Q says. He closes the door after him and settles conformably into the seat of the DB5.

“Madeleine did,” Bond says. “A parting gift of sorts.”

“Poor thing.” Q trails a loving hand on the dashboard. “Who knows what those uncouth Frenchmen have done to you. I never even got to take you for a test spin before you were kidnapped.”

He sees the keys dangling in his peripheral vision and then, Bond’s voice, “If you trust the uncouth Frenchmen.”

"Are you letting me drive it?" 

Q reaches to get the keys from Bond's hand, but Bond doesn't let go, and their hands remain there, suspended and slightly touching.

"Are you sure you're old enough to have a licence?" Bond asks. This time, Q does snatch the keys out.

"Shut up and get out."

They switch seats, and Q turns the car on before he's even fully seated behind the wheel. He gets lost watching it, touching it, examining every little detail he had implemented during those months after Skyfall, every trick he didn't even remember putting there. 

Everything is where it should be. Doctor Swann must have contacts.

"Are you just going to caress it or are we taking it somewhere?" Bond teases.

Q shifts to first gear. "Bring me somewhere I can really try this."

Bond directs him to the outskirts of the city, long empty streets with no end in sight. The sky is clear, the landscape still like a postcard.

Q pushes on the pedal and the speedometer goes up, up, up, and with it Q’s heartbeat.

“Faster?” he asks, breathless, exhilarated.

The sound of Bond’s laughter gets lost in the rumble of the car. “As fast as you want.”

It’s not as fast as Q wants. The car won’t go past one hundred fifty miles per hour, even with all of Q’s modifications, and Q could reach two, three hundred, could reach the fucking moon. But he can’t; he forces himself to stop in an abandoned parking lot, just on the side of the street. The tires screech as the car halts.

Q remains with his hands gripping the steering wheel, unable to let go.

“That was,” he says.

“I know,” Bond says and right, he’s still there with him.

“I never drive,” Q says, sheepishly, as if with his enthusiasm he’s just given something fundamental away. “One forgets.”

He lets his head fall back on the headrest and glances at Bond, who looks vaguely out of place in the passenger seat.

"It's better when you're being chased,” Bond says, wistful, like savouring a drink that’s not quite as you remember it.

Q has told himself he wouldn’t do it, but the words come bubbling out without his consent.

"M would take you back tomorrow,” Q says. It’s the truth. “The number's still yours. I don't think they'll ever find a new 007."

It’s not what Bond needs. Bond’s going to get killed – _get himself killed_ – if he comes back. But it’s not Q’s choice. There are many reasons why that of the double-oh isn’t a job you’re supposed to survive.

Easier clean-up. Easier on the agent’s minds. Easier on everyone else’s conscience.

Q holds his breath, bracing himself for what he’s been dreading for the past months, even more than Bond’s permanent disappearance in the land of domesticity.

But, "maybe they should,” is all Bond says. And then, “Do you want me to drive us back?"

Q studies Bond's face for a trace of anything, any indication of what could be doing on in his mind. When he finds none, he shifts back to first gear and drives away.

They stay silent but for the instructions Bond gives out. It’s only tense because Q feels he’s made a catastrophic mistake and should rectify it somehow, but he’s nowhere near a solution when he pulls up next to his building.

They both get out of the car and Q only fumbles a bit in giving the keys back.

“Let me know how the interview goes,” he says, before he can apologise or dig his own grave any deeper in any way.

Bond hums. For a second, Q thinks that’s going to be it, a terrible ending to an otherwise great date, but Bond lifts his free hand.

"I do miss the glasses a bit," Bond says, and moves a lock of Q’s hair behind his ear, the ghost of a touch.

He gets back in the car, and Q blinks stupidly at nothing for a few minutes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next is Q - part 2, hopefully in less than 8 months.


End file.
